Academic
by Chaos Dragon
Summary: He thinks that Alan Blunt is being very overconfident at the moment. Alex is always up to his tricks, and just because Alex has yet to kill anyone in cold blood doesn't mean that he won't. Warning, Dark!Fic.


Spyfest 2011, for: ikot-ikot / xxxwicked

Academic

He doesn't know who that man sitting across from him is, but he knows that it's not Ian Rider.

He may have blond hair, brown eyes and everything else that the uncle Alex grew up with for fourteen years had, but it's not Ian Rider because Ian Rider is dead and has been dead for two years. So he sits quietly at the table, hands clasped together on the metal surface, watching the impostor for just one of the nine telltales of a lie. There are none, but that doesn't mean he believes.

But since Alex can't find them he moves on to find and catalogue every weakness the man may have as he explains why he disappeared for two years and left Alex at the merciless hands of Alan Blunt and MI6. It's nothing he hasn't heard before from other sources as they coerce him into leaving behind his childhood and painting himself in red violence and death: duty, honor, patriotism. Alex doesn't believe in any of them anymore, so ignoring the heartfelt words is easy.

One arm, the left, seems ever so slightly weaker than the right. He surmises a break in the humerus, presumably from the car accident that was the listed cause of Ian Rider's death. Of course, breaking one's arm could come from any one of a hundred causes. Outside of that, though he searches, there are no other physical imperfections.

No scars, no twinges or winces of a weather wise injury. Not even a limp when he first came into the high security room. Alex frowns now, not caring as the fraud begins to tell him how much better things will be now that he can come home again. Not just because he doubts a miraculous return from the dead can allow Ian Rider to save anyone, but because he doubts there's anything left to save.

He says nothing and stares stonily.

"Alex, say something. Anything. I know you must be angry, and hurt of course, but you must understand that I wanted to protect you."

His composure cracks as Alex laughs loudly at that claim. He shakes his head and lays his hands flat out on the table. They are not the hands of a sixteen year old, and he's not sure if he's disappointed that the man Blunt picked to try and control him with doesn't recognize them for what they are. Long fingers that are nimble and hatched across with various scars, calloused down into the palms in just the right places to cushion the grip of a pistol; no, these are the hands of a killer.

These are the legacy his uncle left him, wanted or not. The man should be thankful Alex doesn't believe for a moment that he is Ian Rider, otherwise he would have to deal with the aftermath of leaping across the table and murdering his last living kin.

For a moment Alex indulges in the fantasy, thinking of how he would like best to repay his uncle for what he has done. The same long, nimble fingers could wrap around a throat and squeeze till there was no more life beneath them. Wind through the short-but-just-long-enough-to-grab hair and smash his skull into the metal table, the concrete of the floor or wall until blood and bone and brains decorate the dull gray interior. Bury his fist and his calloused and scarred knuckles into the face until teeth are broken.

Mostly he just thinks of watching the light die in Ian Rider's eyes as he realizes that his nephew has become what he could not be: the perfect spy, the perfect assassin. Violence leashed until needed, temper reigned in till desired.

He doesn't care about consequences, just about the justice of it all.

But instead of continuing the indulgence, Alex stares at the man with brown eyes that are a match, and says, "You don't know the first thing about protecting me."

He isn't prepared for the response, the way the man leans forward, eyes heated and voice indignant as he demands an explanation, and then runs roughshod over any chance Alex might have replied. (He wouldn't, but it's the principle of the matter, Alex thinks.)

"Of course I do, Alex, I left to keep you safe. There were so many different people who wanted me dead, we thought it would be better if I disappeared." There's a pause as the brown eyed pretender leans back again, willing himself calmer. Alex waits. "If I was dead then there would be no reason for anyone to go after you, and I trust Jack to have done a good job looking after you."

The phony seems content with what he's said, but Alex just pushes himself to his feet. "Jack's dead. She was murdered by 17N three weeks before I turned fifteen."

He doesn't want to see it, but he is watching the man so closely Alex can't miss the quick fire flash of pain and regret in the stranger's eyes. The tension in the jaw, the sudden tooth-breaking clench, the increased breathing and the rapidly fluttering pulse evident in throat and temple. From the angle Alex fancies he can see hands curled into angry fists. He doesn't want to see it, doesn't want to believe, but he does.

"How?" is the quiet, deadly demand.

Alex answers evenly, his voice never wavering as he tells of the brutalities Jack suffered before finally being butchered like animal.

And the man – Ian – sits there, pale and distressed until there is nothing left to say, because Alex doesn't understand his uncle's motivations for abandoning him, and can't fathom how Ian thinks he can return and be family again after what Alex has lived through. He doesn't even want to, merely wants to escape this bloody basement room that Alan Blunt deemed secure enough to let Alex learn exactly how betrayed he'd been by his own family.

Ian stumbles over his words now. Alex paces to the wall, presses his hands against the cool concrete and refuses to look at his uncle. The harsh denial of Jack's death is upsetting, but it's the angry sentence that follows that makes Alex go still. "Alan swore you would be safe!"

The man really has no clue; for all of the things he has learned and done, Ian Rider is nothing more than a child in the game of control Alan Blunt has been orchestrating for years. For a moment Alex almost wishes for the straightforward relationship he had with Yassen. Secrets there had been, but Yassen was more honest with him than nearly anyone else. He wishes it was Yassen there now instead of Ian –

Yassen wouldn't be decrying Blunt's promise of protection. He would be methodically planning the man's death and helping Alex escape Blunt and MI6.

He thinks it's sad that the staunchest ally he's ever had is a man who murders for money.

He thinks it's more sad that his staunchest ally has been dead for more than a year.

But Alex has had enough and wants nothing more to do with Ian Rider for now. Instead he turns to the door, tries the knob. It doesn't turn easily, but it turns, and he lets himself out quietly, ignoring Ian's request that he please stay. Alex can't be there, not now, he needs to escape.

The only truly good thing about being in one of the basement rooms is that the elevator ride is short and he can leave the Bank quickly. It would have been much harder if the security had been active. Alex thinks that Blunt must have expected him to fall all over himself in gratitude for having his uncle back. The thought makes Alex chuckle a little. It's a harsh, painful sounding thing.

Ian isn't a refuge, and both Jack and Yassen are dead, so Alex goes to the only place he has left: Ben Daniels.

xXx

He doesn't remember much about the week after Jack died – it's a blur of pain and anger and red, red blood – but he does remember Ben. Mostly he remembers that Ben handcuffed him to a bed in a desperate attempt to stop Alex from attempting a suicide mission in the name of revenge. But Alex knows that Ben only had his best interests at heart, which is why Alex has taken to Ben's presence in his life with a minimum of complaint.

Truth be told, Ben has done a better job at filling the lack of father Alex has always had. Ian was always so focused, but Ben is relaxed and knows how to have a good time and when to push – and when not to push.

The rest of their old SAS unit is close, to each other and to them, but Alex has never felt that any of them is someone he could go to when in need. He remembers too much of Wolf's anger and antagonism, Eagle's too-simple outlook and lack of maturity, Snake's silence and curious eyes. None of them matches Ben for the things Alex admires him for, and of the four Alex has always found himself glad that Fox is no more.

The date is a Monday, but the darkness of the flat and locked door do little to deter him. Alex patiently kneels and picks the lock in less than a minute. He already knows the codes to disarm the security system, but he decides to be smug with no one to watch, and types in Mrs. Jones' own passcode, which will disarm the system in its entirety, not merely reset it for the next time it's needed. He makes a mental note to tell Ben before he leaves; Ben will have to reboot the system manually and, much as Alex sometimes wants to just be sixteen, he won't leave Ben unguarded for the sake of showing off the things he knows that he shouldn't.

It's hours before Ben comes home, leaving Alex to sit in the darkness and contemplate how once again his life has gone to rubbish. He's spent at least an hour trying to guess at what might possibly happen next when the older agent stumbles in laughing loudly followed closely by the rest of K-Unit, each of them rowdily pleased with the success of their weekly (when they're all four in London) pub crawl. Alex can see all four men clearly outlined by the light from the hall and relaxes further into the sofa. He absolutely does not want any of them to see how agitated he actually is, how confused and angry and hurt he is by the things he has learned today.

"Cub," is the easy greeting that an inebriated Wolf gives him. Eagle offers him a beer before toppling onto Ben's couch. Snake says nothing, just stumbles along, nearly sitting on Eagle's head before adjusting to land at the other end of the couch.

Alex is pleased in an unhappy way, that these men who actually know him rather well never seem to realize that nothing is right. Ben, though, does.

"What's happened?" is the older spy's first question, for he is not nearly as drunk as he was acting minutes before. Alex bites back his mirth at that.

"My uncle is alive."

There is quiet furor.

"The spy?" is all Eagle can manage, "Yassen Gregorovich doesn't miss," from Snake, nothing from Ben who is watching him with dark eyes, and "How?" from Wolf in his most deadly voice.

Alex tells them in concise words, carefully chosen despite split second timing. He hides the implications he wants to throw at his unit: that Blunt is responsible for all of this mess that Alex has lived since Ian was killed. He wants them to help him stop Blunt from whatever he plans next, because Alex sincerely doubts that Blunt is going to let him go.

They talk, but nothing happens, and he knew nothing would. He already knows that they won't help him – their oaths bind them too tightly to be of any real help. And he wants Alan Blunt. Dead. So he spins out a sob story about not wanting to go home, wanting to be somewhere where Ian and MI6 will leave him be, and is sent to the spare room to crash out until morning.

When morning comes, Alex is already gone.

xXx

It's pitifully easy to break into the Royal and General when you're in the Head of MI6's back pocket. Alex imagines that no one would ever expect this of him, not even Blunt. It's a mistake, but Alex is well aware that, despite having already pulled a similar stunt once before, he's been Blunt's pet spy for long enough that he is no longer suspect.

Quietly, he thinks that Alan Blunt is being very overconfident at the moment. Alex is always up to his tricks, and just because Alex has yet to kill anyone in cold blood doesn't mean that he won't.

It's early when he makes it to the floor where he usually meets with Smithers. Smithers, while paranoid, is also an unfortunately trusting man who has never been trained in the fine art of spying. And besides, Alex reasons, if he can get Tulip Jones' passcodes to an agent's flat, he damn well should be able to get the passcodes to Smithers' private domain. Despite changing them more than once a week, Alex has made it a point of stopping by to visit the man and usually never misses a change.

He hasn't this time, and he lets himself in easily to snatch and pick at a few of the more interesting things the scientist has created. His favorite is the tiny and incredibly efficient self programming electronic key. Alex figures he'll need it in order to get into the private files of Alan Blunt.

He feels like he's stumbling around in the dark for the first twenty minutes of searching. Carefully suspending himself above Blunt's desk he quickly discovers that, despite the tricks he's learned and stolen, the files he wants aren't there. Blunt is obviously not stupid enough to keep files about his underage spy where they might first be expected.

Alex turns his attention to figuring out where they are, along with the files on Ian and his supposed death, and Jack. It takes him long enough that he worries he might get caught out before exiting Blunt's office. Between the gadgets, the passcodes, and his own ingenuity, he makes it. Barely.

Alex ducks into an empty cubicle well away from Blunt's lair just as the man himself unlocks it and enters, followed closely by Mrs. Jones. Alex watches impassively for long enough that he's sure an alarm isn't going to go up before scurrying his way back down the hall and into the alcove where the bank of printers are. He sidles back to the corner to eye around it.

When he's reassured that there is no one to witness it, Alex hops atop a printer stand and in the space of two heart beats slips a ceiling tile out of the way and hoists himself into the crawl space. He doesn't need to go far, just ten feet, and then not much else beyond letting himself down into the room that he never knew existed. He wonders briefly, as he checks for any other security measures, if anyone else knew.

Mrs. Jones, maybe, Alex decides as he lowers himself carefully until his feet hit the cot. Once he's secure on his feet he drops down all the way, happily invading Alan Blunt's true private sanctum.

There are file boxes stacked neatly, but the one he needs is already open on the tiny desk in the opposite corner. He wastes no time – files are in his hands and brown eyes are skimming them as he searches. Here, the papers that outline the proposal to fake Ian Rider's death. There, the paperwork that gave Blunt control over him. His eyes are fever bright with anger as Alex realizes that the only control Alan Blunt was supposed to have was a weekly stipend paid out to Jack for his care.

Here is proof that Blunt knew the truth about his dead godfather. There is—

He stops in his tracks, hand trembling as he reads the file name he has just uncovered. _17N._

No, no, no he decides. It's coincidence, horrible coincidence. A date, a cipher, anything but what he suddenly fears.

His gut clenches inside an icy fist as he flips the papers, eyes no longer skimming but carefully reading. The anger rises until Alex thinks that his skin must be on fire, his eyes hot and heavy with murder. Not just any murder, but Jack's murder. For this there are no pretends, no take backs.

Nothing but Alan Blunt taking a game he'd already used once against Alex with great success to another level.

Covertness leaves the building as Alex kicks the faux paneling out, not bothering to try unlocking it from the inside with Smithers' handy little gadget. No, he doesn't give a damn about hiding what he's learned now, or hiding the fact that one way or another he's going to make sure Alan Blunt pays.

Alex has the vaguest impression of flying papers, a topped computer and chair. He doesn't really care enough to fully process it, though, and continues on unerringly for Blunt's office. His face is pale and drawn, his eyes dark and unfathomable. No one steps in his way; no one is foolish enough because right now Alex is death with two hands and a file that proves murder.

Then the elevators at the far end of the corridor chime, open and close, and Ben is there. Alex doesn't stop moving for a second, but Ben is faster to commit to possible suicide than the few other people on the floor. And he's closer to Blunt's office than Alex is.

When Ben moves to intercept Alex he dodges; Ben dashes to the right to cut him off, and the fight is engaged. Ben is taller, his arms and legs longer, but Alex is quicker and has more experience at fighting. Not just combat, but the kind of hand to hand that leaves one person standing and the other person dead. The only problem is that no matter how much Alex wants to kill Blunt, he doesn't really want to hurt Ben. Well, kill him, at least.

It acts as a handicap, Alex's unwillingness to commit to any action that could be fatal. It cuts into his speed, and without the outright desperation and viciousness that has become a marker of his fighting style, Ben carries the too quick tussle to victory, binding Alex with his own weight.

"Let me go," Alex hisses, fingers clutching at the now crinkled and partially ruined papers he's stolen.

Ben refuses, gripping him tighter. "Whatever it is you think you know, it's not worth your life."

Alex wrenches himself away with a cry that is full of rage and anguish. He doesn't care that it's echoed by a pained one from Ben, or that his friend and mentor is holding his now awkwardly positioned arm. He doesn't actually care much about anything in this exact moment.

He certainly doesn't care who knows– and maybe the more who know the better. "He had her killed!" Just saying it is enough to hurt, to feel like he's had to go through Jack's death all over again.

Ben can't know what it feels like. It doesn't matter if he's lost mates in combat, he was a fucking adult when it happened. Alex has been forced into this life, a soldier, a spy, years before any reasonable or rational person could expect. He's not an adult. He's not a child either, not anymore, but he's nowhere near an adult.

And Jack was Jack. Surrogate mother, best friend, confidant, the only person he could ever remember really loving.

Ben takes a step toward him, broken arm still cradled, and Alex reacts. He shoves out at Ben with both hands, the papers dropping as he darts past. He can hear Ben calling after him, his voice harsh, trying to give chase, but Alex is just a little faster and certainly has no freshly broken bones, so he makes it to the elevator, the doors closing before Ben can make it.

Fuck it, Alex thinks. And fuck this. He'd do it on his own terms, just like he always did.

xXx

He finds the decision easy to make. Nearly as easy is the three sets of breaking and entering he has to do, though the first two are much easier than the last one. While Ben is no doubt at St. Dominic's getting treatment, and the rest of K-Unit are back at Brecon (according to a copy of orders he found in Wolf's flat), Alex spends several hours worming his way past Alan Blunt's formidable security. He has the gadgets he stole as well as many he was given for missions, and he's not stupid.

But it still takes a long time just to get into Blunt's garage. Luckily, that's exactly where he wants to go.

Blunt has made it a habit to work until seven o'clock, and then leave for his home in Kensington. Alex expects him no later than half past, and is not disappointed when the garage door is activated remotely to let Blunt's personal car inside. It's not the Rolls that he's chauffeured about in daily, but he supposes even the head of MI6 doesn't merit a Phantom for take-home.

It's simple enough to wait, just wait, until Blunt is out and he's disarmed the interior security. Then Alex slips out of his hidey hole and swings. The leather sap he stole at Wolf's flat works like a charm, though he hits Blunt's skull with a little more force than he intended to. He's fairly certain that he's fractured the man's skull.

Not that Alex cares.

With the rest of the security off Alex runs a quick tour of the house. There's nothing of any real interest anymore, just the need to check for other people, pets, anything that might interrupt him. There are none, but that's exactly what he expected.

Blunt's kitchen is a well appointed space with plenty of light, and clean cold tile. Alex drags the unconscious man into it and proceeds to use rope from the garage to bind Blunt at the hands and feet, then tie him spread-eagled using the counters as weights. While he waits for Blunt to wake up he withdraws two folded papers from his left pocket, and a slim plastic case from his right.

He hunts down a pair of scissors (that he finds, incidentally, in a drawer next to the sink) and efficiently cuts away Blunt's jacket, shirt, and undershirt. And again, he waits.

He's estimated he'll need about six hours to finish the job, so Alex is in no hurry. It's just gone eight. He raids Blunt's fridge without a speck of guilt, stepping over the man as if he's a piece of furniture. It's not until an hour has passed that Alex begins to get impatient. He has a deadline, after all.

So he gets a glass of ice water and pours it on Blunt's face.

It's enough to make the gray man blink himself back to the world, and Alex crouches down where he is, elbows resting on his knees and hands dangling carelessly as he balances there. The class is held easily in his hand. Alex reaches out to dump the last dregs of water in Blunt's face before tossing the glass at the sink, where it shatters with a brilliant crash.

"I'm not sure who it insults more that you thought I'd never find out," Alex comments conversationally.

Blunt splutters for a moment but Alex ignores him. There's a wad of cotton waiting next to Blunt's head, and a longer strip to bind it. But Alex pauses, gag in hand.

He tilts his head, watches Blunt for a moment. "Why?" he asks. It's really all he wants to know so that he can let all of this go to rest. "Why would you do it in the first place?"

Blunt's mouth forms itself into a thin, gray line.

Alex frowns. "You have nothing to gain by not answering. You're going to die tonight. I just want to know why exactly I'm killing you. Ian was good enough to do what you wanted, Jack was already between a rock and a hard place. There was no reason to kill either of them, fake or not."

Blunt still refuses an answer, so Alex just shoves the gagging material into his mouth and binds it tight. As he does he tells Alan Blunt all of the interesting things he learned in the little room that shouldn't have existed. He offers his suspicions, his anger, his hatred. He tries not to sound confused, but it does come out any time Ian is mentioned in Alex's many revelations. It's the only thing that Alex is unable to equate: why would Blunt coerce his best spy into faking his death for the sake of an untrained teenager who spent too much time relying on luck?

But Alex has accepted that he'll never know that answer, if there is one that is remotely rational. There's only one thing left, and Alex reaches for the plastic case and the sheets of paper. He has them memorized, but he wants to wave one of them in Blunt's face.

Now Blunt begins to struggle some as Alex crouches back down. He shows Blunt the topmost sheet of paper and smiles a little. "You made everyone else sign it, but I never did. I figure it's about time I got around to it."

He gives no warning as he extracts the scalpel from the case, lays against the pale skin of Alan Blunt's chest, and begins his work.

xXx

Alex learns the hard way that his six hour time limit was too conservative. He's pushing six hours by the time he finishes and cleans himself up. He wonders if he should feel bad as he stands in Blunt's own shower and watches blood-pinked water swirl down the drain. He doesn't. And doesn't think he ever will.

The clothes he was wearing are ruined. Alex leaves them in a pile on the bathroom floor before heading back to the kitchen. He unties Blunt and pushes him back onto his back. It was more of a battle than he expected when he moved his careful scribe work from chest to back – the old bastard still had some fight in him. But Alex got it done, and in fairly neat hand, too.

He doesn't admire his handiwork for too long. He still has things to do. One of them is cleaning Blunt's body off. Carving two separate legal documents into his flesh leaves a great deal of room for improvement, looks wise. Alex uses no finesse, though, merely spraying the blood away with a sprayer from the kitchen sink. And as he cares nothing for Blunt's personal car, he doesn't do more than wrap a bit of plastic around the body to protect his own clothes before manhandling Blunt to the vehicle.

It's fall, so dawn will come early. Alex figures he has an hour, maybe an hour and a half, before dawn hits. If he's lucky another hour after that will be the herald of the sunrise. He hurries.

It takes a little time to get to Trafalgar Square, but Alex is more concerned about people interrupting him once he's there. By now he has little fear of imprisonment. He figures he has a fairly good chance at either death first, or a luxurious life-long stay in a mental ward. He's not sure which is worse, but Alex is fairly sure he'll choose death should it come to it.

He gets to the Square and looks about for signs of life. There may be some, but when he can find no evidence of people and especially police, Alex hops the curb and drives Blunt's car to the base of Nelson's Column. Less than a minute later he's driving Blunt's care back off the Square and abandoning it in a no parking zone near the Strand.

He jogs back, covering the distance easily. Blunt is exactly where he left him, but Alex expected nothing less. Blunt, if still alive, is so close to death it makes no difference. Alex doesn't care about this, either, because once he's finished he's going to deal with Blunt anyway.

Another quick jog loops rope about the column, above head height so that when Alex has finished tying one of Blunt's wrists up, he can create a sort of slip-noose about the other and pull, hoisting the body into the air.

The finished result pleases Alex to no end. Blunt is so grey now that it's hard to tell the difference between flesh and stone. With quick, efficient moves, Alex strips Blunt of the rest of his clothes until he hangs in nothing more than pale boxers. He uses the pants to dab at the minute traces of blood that have welled to the surface of the wounds on his chest.

Then Alex steps back and considers. No, he's good now.

There isn't much blood left in Blunt's body, but Alex has no desire to ruin the effects of the cleaning he's given it. So instead he goes for the much cleaner route of the fracture he gave Blunt earlier. The knife sinks in quickly, Blunt never reacts. Alex doesn't bother removing it. After all, he's signed his initials in flesh and blood. There's nothing left to do but wait.

xXx

He's not sure who found the body first, there were so many screams. He's close enough to hear them, but far enough away not to be caught at the scene. He's surprised at the average Londoner's inability to pay attention, because it's an hour and a half after the sun has cleared the horizon when the cries begin.

He doesn't bother to wonder, even now, what they'll think. They're sheep anyway. But he knows that it's a message. But maybe someone will realize what the words are as they cut the corpse down. Alex figures that it's subtle enough for the situation: the Official Secrets Act on Blunt's chest, and Article 3 of Geneva Convention 182. The one that should have stopped Blunt from doing what he did to Alex.

Alex knows that there are many who will know it was him, but there's no proof that anyone will be willing to offer, and if anyone ever tried to prosecute him everything MI6 did to him will come out in the open. Worst case scenario is they hire someone to kill him. It would be like them to follow in Alan Blunt's shows.

But Alex doesn't really care; it's academic at this point, and he has a plane to catch.


End file.
